


Soup Song

by wrenjiBjenkins



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Ficlet, Fluff, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers Can't Cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:00:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4483793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenjiBjenkins/pseuds/wrenjiBjenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small Stucky ficlet written for a friend on Tumblr, who was feeling ill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup Song

It was the singing that woke him. _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh…_ and for a minute Bucky was in 1931 with Steve shivering next to him, despite the mass of blankets they were huddled under, listening to Sarah sing in the kitchen. Her voice softly reciting the words, as if in prayer. _A leanbh mo chléibh go n-eirí do chodhladh leat…_ Child of my heart, sleep calmly… Whenever Steve was sick, Bucky was there at his bedside, alternating between pressing a damp towel to Steve’s forehead when he got too warm, and holding Steve when he got too cold. Steve was always too hot or too cold, especially when he was small, especially in winter.

Bucky snuggled deeper into the covers, he was the one that was always cold these days. He slowly opened his eyes, and frowned. He wasn’t in Steve’s small bedroom, of course. That room, that New York, was gone; Sarah was gone. Steve never got sick anymore. Bucky however… ‘Ah…ah…ACHOO!’ There was a loud crack as Bucky’s head slammed off the headboard. He groaned, reached up and rubbed the bump that was already forming. He’d been fighting this cold for days now, and had just about had enough. He sat up, reached for the tissue box on the nightstand - his fifth in two days - only to find it empty.

“Dammit.” he mumbled, and resigned himself to leave the bed. He kicked the pile of tissues littering the floor in search of his slippers; pulled the blanket off the bed, and wrapped it around his shoulders; and shuffled out the door towards the kitchen.

The singing resumed as he passed through the living room. _Séan is sonas gach oíche do chóir…_ Bucky smiled. Although Steve’s voice was deeper than Sarah’s, the song sound the same, just as heavenly as when they were kids. Bucky could never sing the words correctly, but that hadn’t made Sarah stop trying to teach him. “It’s a prayer, Buck-O. You sing that whenever Stevie gets sick, and he’ll be better by the morning.” Bucky remembers the countless nights after Sarah had passed muttering the words under his breath. Even on days when Steve wasn’t sick. _Tá mise le do thaobh ag guídhe ort na mbeannacht…_ _I’m by your side praying for blessings on you…_

Steve was standing in front of the stove when Bucky shuffled into the kitchen, his slippers acting like ice skates. He slide up behind Steve, who had switched from singing to humming, wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist. Steve’s back shook as he chuckled.

“Morning Buck. Feelin’ any better?” Steve asked, not taking his focus off of the stove.

“Ughhh…” Bucky moaned in response, setting his chin on Steve’s shoulder. “S’not fair. Why am I the sick one?” He pressed his mouth against Steve’s shoulder to muffle a cough.

“Because you’re the one that ran head first into an unscouted infectious ward without your gear on.” Steve stated matter-of-factly, pointing to the unopened box of tissues on the counter - which Bucky snatched up immediately.

“There were kids in there Stevie! I did it for the children!”

“No, you did it because you said, and I quote ‘I have the same stuff as you Rogers. There’s no way I’ll get sick!’” Steve turned around, put a finger under Bucky’s chin, and moved it until their eyes met. “Don’t get me wrong, you did save those kids. But you could have at least worn something. Now, go sit down. The soup’s almost ready.” Steve moved to get bowls out of the cupboard.

Bucky looked at the sludge that Steve had been stirring, then back to Steve. “I’m suppose to eat that?” He pointed to the contents of the pot. It was dark brown, and thick like gravy; small chunks of potato, and onion bobbed near the surface. Sarah, in all her years had never made anything that looked like that. Steve turned, bowls in on hand, spoons in the other, with a hurt expression on his face, his blue eyes wide with embarrassment.

“It’s… It’s the soup Ma used to make… When I was sick…” Bucky raised an eyebrow, and Steve left out a dejected sigh. “I’ll call the Chinese place…”

“No, no. I’ll… I’ll eat it.” Bucky said, taking a seat at the table. “It just, looks different than I remember is all.”

“Well, they don’t have some of the things Ma had, so I had to improvise.” Steve shrugged, filled the bowls with the gravy-soup, and set one in front of Buckly. “Besides, it’s not like I could ever taste it. I mean, I was sick whenever I ate it.” Bucky dipped his spoon into the liquid, fished out a potato lump, and tentatively put it in his mouth. His face snapped up to look at Steve the moment the broth touched his tongue. Steve smiled cautiously. Bucky closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and moaned, before leaning forward to shovel the rest of the soup into his mouth.

Steve laughed, and tried a spoonful himself. His reaction was different. “Gah!” he exclaimed, wiping his tongue on the back of his hand. “This is terrible, Buck.” Bucky glared at him over his bowl, then smiled nonchalantly.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about Stevie, tastes just like your Ma’s.”

“Ma’s never tasted this bad.”

“How would you know? You said couldn’t taste it anyway.” Bucky took Steve’s bowl and began devouring its contents. “Must’ve been the song.”

“What do you mean?”

“The song you were singing. You know, _Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é…_ ” Bucky spoke the words without a tune. It sounded strange, reciting it like a poem. “Your Ma used to sing it all the time when we were kids.”

Steve stared at him for a minute, his brows knitted together. “I was singing it in English, Bucky. I’ve forgotten most of the Gaelic words.You must have been translating it with what you remembered.”

“Maybe that’s why it tastes so good to me.” Bucky replied. “It tastes like a dream. A good dream.”


End file.
